


Four Times Doyle Cooked for Bodie and One When He Didn’t

by hutchynstarsk



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Cooking, Food, Gen, Tags, episode-related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:36:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk





	Four Times Doyle Cooked for Bodie and One When He Didn’t

3241 words

My first effort at the ‘five things’ genre. Most are episode related.

With British beta thanks to: [](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/profile)[**anna060957**](http://anna060957.livejournal.com/). All mistakes are my own.

 

 

 

 

**Four Times Doyle Cooked for Bodie and One When He Didn’t**

by Allie

1.

Bodie stretched, one hand in the small of his back. “I’m knackereed.   
D’you think Macklin ever gets tired?” He glanced across at his new  
partner and nudged him with an elbow. “Eh?”

Doyle edged away and winced, rubbing his arm.

“Oh, sore there? Sorry, mate.” Still trying to get past the initial  
awkwardness of being newly partnered with an ex-copper, Bodie tried to  
make amends. “Drink?”

Doyle shook his head. “I just want to go home, have some eggs, and  
sleep.”

“Eggs?” Bodie raised an eyebrow dramatically. “I don’t know which  
surprises me more—that you eat eggs or that you cook them.”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “And why wouldn’t I eat eggs? They’re pure  
protein.”

Bodie grinned. “Oh, well, you seem like a picky eater.” He clapped  
Doyle on the back in a matey manner. “Now... about this cooking, old  
son...”

Doyle rolled his eyes, but he grinned a little, too. “You’re as subtle  
as a bull, Bodie.” He started from the room and jerked his head for  
Bodie to follow. “All right, you can have some. Come on, then!”

Bodie followed, rubbing his hands together gleefully. Either way, this  
was going to be great. If Doyle was a good egg-cook: free food. If he  
wasn’t: something to tweak him about. Either could be a key to good  
partnership.

“Lead on, Macduff,” he said.

Doyle’s mouth curved into a smile he tried to hide. “Never met the man.”

 

 

2.

Someone was kicking at Bodie’s door. “Oi, open up, sunshine!” called  
Doyle’s muffled voice.

Bodie heaved himself to his feet and walked to the door, walking a bit  
splay-footed because he was so very tired. He opened the door with his  
left hand, gingerly.

Doyle brushed past him, his curls bobbing. Bodie took in the load he  
carried, and a grin slowly grew on his face. “Steak and potatoes? Aw,  
you really were worried about me.”

“Not me, mate. Cowley was.” He set the things down on the stove. With  
a quick twist of his wrist, he set the oven to heat and then turned a  
crack-toothed, twinkling grin on Bodie. “I knew you’d be all right.”

“Then why are you cooking for me?” Smiling, Bodie leaned against the  
stove and regarded his partner. “Eh, mate?” He poked at Ray’s arm with  
his elbow.

Doyle shrugged, and got out a pan for the steak. “Couldn’t leave you on  
your own. Unless I misread the situation, the lovely Julia won’t be  
around for a while.”

Bodie’s smile disappeared. “No. I think that’s over.”

Of course, there had been the promises of keeping in touch. But the  
truth was, it had been too much for her. How could he blame her? She  
would run, probably date a _real_ civil servant next time, someone  
who wouldn’t have anything to do with guns and terrorists. 

The thing was, he really couldn’t blame her. Sometimes difficult things  
like that drew people closer. He and Doyle seemed to work better  
together each time they lived through such a harrowing event. But for  
other people, probably most people, violence and stress tore them apart.

“Sorry,” said Ray. “Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Bodie snorted. “Don’t be. There’s plenty more fish in the sea.” He  
gave Doyle a cheery smile so he wouldn’t think Bodie was upset. “D’you  
feel guilty, then, that you’re cooking for me? Leaving poor Bodie all  
alone to tackle the Helmut-Meyer gang? Does guilt always bring out the  
steak, old son?” He mimed rubbing his hands together, eyes alight, but  
he didn’t actually touch his bandaged hands. It still hurt too much if  
jarred, even accidentally.

Doyle grinned, raising his eyebrows. “Nah. But I can’t leave you alone  
to cope, can I? An injuredBodie is like a one-eyed teddy bear—too bloody  
pathetic.”

“Oi, who are you comparing with a teddy bear?” Bodie grinned for real  
now, feeling much better for the bantering.

“You, you big softie.” Doyle spoke in a camp voice. Then his head rose  
with a look of some concern. “Hey, you’re not out of brown sauce, are  
you? I didn’t buy any.”

Bodie shook his head slowly, tsk’ing as if in wonder. “You really were  
worried, weren’t you?”

Doyle flung a dish towel at him. “Oh, go on, then. Set the table, you  
wounded wonder!”

 

3.

The doorbell rang, an annoying, grating sound—that had been absent for  
too long. Bodie scowled, feeling the tension tighten his mouth and  
shoulders further. 

Should he be angry because Doyle was here to bother him or because he’d  
waited so long?

At least, it was probably Doyle. Who else would it be but Doyle? It  
wasn’t as though anyone else bothered about him. 

Sure, Cowley had gone after him and said a few words, but Bodie had  
barely heard. The pain and fury of betrayal—and Marikka’s death—had  
burned too strong and deep for him to hear.

And Doyle hadn’t followed. 

The doorbell rang again.

Bodie scowled harder and clenched a fist at his side. The whole Marikka  
debacle hadn’t truly been Doyle’s fault. Probably smart of the little  
bastard not to follow; Bodie’d have decked him.

A clever sod, our Ray. He’d even got it on tape that he was doing all  
this trying to help Bodie. Even said ‘Sorry’ ahead of time.

How could you be mad after that? Except Bodie was. And he didn’t know  
if he could stand to hear Doyle apologise. Or make excuses. Or say any  
damn thing in the world.

The doorbell buzzed again.

Finally, Bodie strode to the door and pulled it open. He scowled at his  
partner.

Doyle stood there holding a couple of grocery bags. He gave Bodie a  
hesitant smile, and walked past him. “Hope you’re hungry. Prawns were  
on special. And chocolate cake.”

He set the bags down as if it were his own flat.

“Make yourself at home,” said Bodie sarcastically.

“Ta.” Doyle’s back stayed to him. He began to open packages and get out  
pans. Bodie glared at his back for a moment, torn between wanting to say  
something and wanting to leave the room—and wanting to see what Doyle had  
brought.

At last he took a step forward and peered over Ray’s shoulders. Frozen  
peas. Chips from the chip shop and fresh prawns. A delicious meal. A  
bottle of wine stuck out of a paper bag, and he saw just the edge of the  
promised chocolate cake. Tantalising.

Mollified, though not certain he should be, Bodie said, “What temp for  
the chips?”

He waited till Doyle told him, then set the oven to pre-heat. He stood  
next to it, listening to the sounds of metal heating and gas hissing so  
close by. He drummed his fingers on the stovetop.

“You could’ve told me, you know.” Even as he said it, he wasn’t certain  
what he meant: that Cowley had ordered him followed, or what? All of it,  
he decided. Ray could’ve told him all of it, and he’d have had one less  
betrayal to deal with.

“You could’ve come round, instead of running off with bloody great guns,”  
said Doyle. Then he turned to Bodie. “I am sorry. For what it’s  
worth.”

 

Bodie nodded miserably. Could Doyle have disobeyed Cowley? Diligent  
Doyle, ex-copper, always obeying orders like he was born to it? But he  
would disobey—or at least argue—if he thought something was wrong. So he  
must’ve agreed Bodie wasn’t to be trusted. That hurt as much as  
anything.

“Did you think I couldn’t think with my head if there was a girl  
involved?” Bodie asked, calm and polite.

“No, I thought you were innocent and I wanted to prove it. If I’d  
interfered, and someone found out, that would’ve made you look guiltier,  
mate. They had photos of you meeting her in the park, a suspected spy  
sort of situation. Must see how it looked.”

“But not to you.”

“No, not to me. If you wanted to pull that kind of thing, you’d have  
done it years ago.”

Bodie snorted. “Thanks a lot.” He walked from the kitchen, a hollow  
feeling inside that was nothing to do with hunger. Partly Marikka.   
Partly Doyle’s casual assessment. Partly everything else.

“Didn’t mean that how it sounded.” Doyle spoke from near his shoulder.   
“I am sorry you felt abandoned.”

“Oh, is that how I ‘felt,’ is it, Doyle?” asked Bodie, turning on him,  
scowling. “It’s so very nice of you to tell me how I felt. So how did I  
‘feel’ when I saw you talking to Marikka in your flat?”

Doyle’s brows rose. “You did come by? But then why didn’t you come in,  
let me explain what was going on? Let me help you?”

“Because it was all a bloody conspiracy by then, wasn’t it? Far as I  
could see, you were in miles deep as anyone else. You and bloody Cowley  
and I’m the fall guy. Only I’m still alive, aren’t I, and Marikka takes  
the fall and she’s dead. Why did you bloody bring her within a mile of  
those vultures?”

Doyle’s face twisted. “Wish I hadn’t.” He turned away, back to the  
kitchen with swift steps, as if he couldn’t wait to get away.

A pot clattered; water ran for cooking the peas.

Bodie stood there feeling oddly bereft. If Doyle had argued with him,  
proved him wrong, at least it would feel normal. And if he couldn’t  
prove that assessment wrong, at least Bodie could hold onto his  
self-righteous anger. But the truth was, if he’d never met Marikka again  
like she asked, she would still be alive.

“Doyle.” He headed into the kitchen. Paused with one hand on the  
doorway. Doyle glanced at him, expression wary and bleak. He was  
turning on the heat under Bodie’s largest pot, now more than half-filled  
with water for cooking the prawns.

“Ray,” said Bodie.

Doyle swallowed. “I did say sorry, and I am. The whole thing was a  
cockup, wasn’t it?”

Bodie could only nod.

Doyle turned back to the stove, looking steadfastly at it now, not Bodie.  
“Wouldn’t blame you if you quit.”

Bodie took a deep, deep breath—felt like his deepest one in days. He  
thumped his fist against the doorway, hard enough that it stung. “Where  
would I go?” He walked into the room. “Did you get the chips in?   
They’ll get cold if you let them sit on the table.”

Doyle looked around blindly. “Your—your baking sheet. Need to find it  
first.”

“In the lower cupboard.” Bodie jerked his head in the direction. 

“Ta.” Doyle brushed past him. He looked as miserable as Bodie felt. He  
dumped out chips, arranged them with his hands, slid the tray into the  
ticking oven, now filling the room with the heat of summer.

He made the effort to put a smile on as he faced Bodie. “You may as well  
set the table.”

“For one or two?” asked Bodie.

Doyle swallowed again. “That’s up to you.”

Bodie stood there for a moment, staring at Ray. He saw a weary man,  
looking older than he remembered. He saw sorrow, apology, and the same  
confused feelings Bodie had. 

It wasn’t the same for him— it couldn’t be, he’d never been in love with  
Marikka or felt Cowley had given him over to the enemy for a  
plaything—but he wasn’t unaffected. That was enough, for now. 

Bodie got two plates out.

 

 

4.

Bodie entered Doyle’s flat and looked around for food. “Ray?” he called.  
On the counter sat a half-made fruit salad (sliced pears and peaches in  
a bowl) and a few of the fruits from the barrow. Bodie nicked a grape  
and ate it. “Oi, sunshine!” he called. “Anything decent to eat?”

Doyle emerged from the toilet, dressed in comfortable jeans and a faded  
flannel shirt. He was towelling his hair dry, and scowled at Bodie.   
“Oh, it’s you. Ever knock, do you?” He brushed past Bodie and shut the  
door.

“I said, do you have anything decent to eat? I’m starved.” He walked to  
the fridge and peered in. He wrinkled his nose at the piles of produce,  
then checked the freezer and found some frozen beefburgers. “Fancy  
making burgers, mate?” He turned to look at Doyle just as the towel  
flopped against his shoulder. Bodie caught it before it could fall off  
and stared at Doyle’s scowling face.

“You’re just hungry from all that cannabis.”

“Necessary for undercover. Hand on heart, I never use it otherwise.” He  
put a hand over his heart, but Doyle didn’t soften his scowl.

“Shove off, Bodie.” Doyle pushed the fridge door shut.

“Now is that any way to talk to your partner when he’s been undercover  
for ages and needs a good nosh?”

Doyle walked to the counter and began angrily chopping apples. 

Realisation dawned, slowly. “You and Esther.” Bodie grabbed half an  
apple, snatching with quick fingers before Doyle’s knife could flash any  
closer to it. He took a bite. “Ended badly?”

“Oh, not badly, per se,” said Doyle in a cold, airy voice. “She only  
started crying and couldn’t stop when it was time to say goodbye.”

Bodie whistled—or tried to. He stopped abruptly and swallowed his  
mouthful of fruit. “Boy, I thought it wasn’t serious. How’d you get her  
to fall for you so hard, then?”

Doyle turned round and pointed at him with the knife. “Leave off, Bodie!  
I don’t know, all right?” His voice cracked a little as he turned back  
and continued chopping, too fast. “We were—having fun. She laughed at  
my jokes. Well, some of them. I thought—I mean, she had a life of her  
own back home. Didn’t know things were that serious. But she started  
crying...”

“Girls cry,” said Bodie sagely, taking another bite. “It happens  
sometimes. Maybe nothing to do with you, just stress from the job.”

“Yeah, and you’re the expert on women, are you?”

“Don’t knock it. You know I am.”

“Sure you are. You and your bloody ‘warm and under fifty’ philosophy.   
Wouldn’t give two hoots if a girl started crying on you, would you?” He  
grabbed an orange and began cutting into it.

Bodie blinked. “What is this, ‘knock Bodie day’? Of course I’d care.”

“Thing is,” said Doyle, “I told her I might go away with her. I was  
joking. Did she not know I was joking? Maybe it wasn’t a... Maybe I  
shouldn’t have said that.”

“And the Doyle self-flagellation begins.” Bodie rolled his eyes.

“You watch your mouth,” said Doyle without heat; he sounded too depressed  
to have even bothered with their usual double-entendre insults. “Ow.”   
He stuck his finger in his mouth.

“That’s what happens when you chop whilst angry. Let uncle Bodie take a  
look.”

“Oh, shove off.” Doyle abandoned the half-finished fruit salad and the  
knife. He kept his finger in his mouth and wandered disconsolately from  
the room.

Bodie glanced back at cutting board. Apple slices, bits of orange and  
orange juice, a knife, and blood. His stomach growled, but he ignored it  
for once and followed Doyle into the next room.

Doyle plopped miserable and loose-limbed onto the couch, holding a  
handkerchief squeezed tightly around his left index finger. “I can’t do  
that, can I? I can’t make a woman fall in love with me without even  
trying. I shouldn’t be able to.” 

Bodie sat beside him, and put an arm round his shoulder. “Look, son,  
it’s not your fault. You can’t make yourself be ready for love and  
commitment if you’re not. You want to follow her halfway across the  
world and marry a woman you don’t love? No, I didn’t think so.” Two  
pats on the shoulder. “Now go on, cheer up and make us some burgers.”

Doyle cast him a disgusted, grumpy look. “Oh, make them yourself.” He  
sprang from the couch, and slammed the door on his way into the toilet.

Bodie rolled his eyes, sighed, and leaned back on the couch. 

_That’s right, Doyle feels guilty so I get the brunt of it. Despicable  
old Bodie with his realistic take on the world and his shady, pot-smoking  
past. Damn it, Ray. Not everything’s my fault._

He rubbed a fist against his forehead, mouth tight. Then he opened his  
eyes and forced himself to his feet. 

He got out the frying pan. Doyle was going to be sorry if these burgers  
were dreadful.

 

 

 

5.

“Oi, sunshine. You sure you’re up for this?”

“It’s cooking, not a marathon.” Doyle dumped the ingredients on the  
counter and gave Bodie a crooked grin. “Unless you’re not hungry?”

Bodie waved a hand. “Go on, then! Cook away. I shall savour the  
bounty. Shout if you need a hand.” He called this last over his  
shoulder as he headed into the next room to resume watching telly.

Bodie sagged comfortably on the couch and watched the game. Pleasant  
sounds emerged in the background: chopping, dishes clattering, and Doyle  
walked around in the kitchen. After bit there was silence, but Bodie  
didn’t notice it till a semi-hoarse voice asked, “What’s the score?”

Bodie twisted around to see Doyle standing there, eyes fastened on the  
telly. In one hand he held a peeled carrot, loosely, as though he’d  
forgotten what to do with it.

“Five to four. I thought you were making spaghetti, not vegetables.”

“You grate it in. Adds flavour.” Doyle spoke distractedly, eyes still  
glued to the screen.

Bodie snorted. “Well, sit down and watch if you want.” He patted the  
couch beside him.

Doyle shook his head. “No, I have to finish getting everything in the  
sauce.”

“Carrots, you mean.” Bodie’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a clever scheme  
to get me to eat vegetables, is it?”

Doyle grinned, his gaze leaving the game and settling on Bodie in fond  
amusement. “You do need to get more vegetables in you.” He stepped  
forward, shifted the vegetable in his hands, and bent over Bodie.   
Grinning, he mimed a horror-film-knife-stab at Bodie’s arm.

Bodie laughed. He caught the carrot out of Doyle’s hand. “Skip the veg.  
Sit, watch.” 

Doyle hesitated. “Suppose I could add it to the salad.” He perched  
lightly on the arm of the couch. Bodie thought about telling him not to  
be rough on the furniture, but Ray had lost weight since the hospital,  
probably wasn’t going to break it. 

Instead he said, “Aha, you’ve revealed it is a vegetable plot, mate.”

“Well I’ve peeled it now. Waste not to use it somehow.” 

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I believe you.” 

One of Doyle’s booted feet nudged him. Bodie turned to meet his  
affectionate, slightly exasperated look. “I shouldn’t have to force you  
to eat right, Bodie. Should take care of yourself so you’re not the one  
ends up needing heart surgery next.”

Heart surgery. Heart surgery, and Doyle back from the grave he’d so  
nearly filled. For a moment, Bodie felt a warm smile replace his teasing  
expression. He brought a hand up to pat the middle of Doyle’s back.   
“Good to have you back, mate.”

Doyle hesitated. “Good to be back.” Then he bent and reached with a  
quick movement and snagged the carrot back from Bodie’s hand. 

A moment later, Bodie heard crunching.

Without removing his eyes from the telly, Bodie grinned. “Rabbit.”

Doyle looked down at him, nudged him to get his attention, and made a  
face, scrunching his nose up three times in quick succession.

Bodie laughed. 

_So_ very _good to have you back, Ray!_

 

 

>>


End file.
